


Now I Lay Me Down

by runsinthefamily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Prayer, Purgatory, Season Eight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:09:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily





	Now I Lay Me Down

Castiel balances on the balls of his feet, looking down on the trio of leviathan beneath him. Here in Purgatory, their forms are fluid, mostly serpentine, though one of them has retained a human shape, marred only by the round constricting maw where a human face should be. They hiss and mutter at one another, confused by the three false trails he's left, two marked with the scent of his vessel, one with a faint wisp of his Grace. 

The tree he is in sways lightly in the wind and he adjusts without effort. Any noise, any indication that he is present ... he has fled from them before, when he's been spotted, but it is never easy. They know all his tricks. They know _him._ As he knows them, and knows that they will follow the Grace trail. These three are stupid. 

He waits, while they argue and then fight, the human shaped one seizing one of the serpents by the throat and beating it savagely against a tree. The human shaped one roars, and Castiel trembles in his perch. Everything within the range of that sound trembles. The human shaped one stalks away down the Grace trail, the two serpents slithering after. 

Castiel leans forward, preparing to drop down. He will follow one of the vessel scented trails to the river, and then perhaps it will be safe to exert his Grace and fly somewhere. 

_Cas._

He pauses, one hand against the tree trunk, eyes fixed on the forest floor.

_Cas, dunno if you're even hearing this. I'm still looking. Hold on._

He closes his eyes. Sometimes he wishes he knew how to weep. 

***

_Hey, Cas. Found a pretty good hole-up this evening. Smells like the ass end of a monkey but it's empty at least. Took down a whole pack of weres today. Coulda used you, man._ A pause, filled with the steady, spiky warmth of Dean's concern and irritation. _You end up dead, Imma kick your ass, Cas._

***

It has not become easier to ignore Dean's prayers. The first had been the worst one, just a great blast of fear and worry and Dean's peculiar tangled blend of love and fury and guilt. _Cas! Cas!_ Just his name, repeated, as Dean watched the red-eyed beasts close in. And Cas had gone on fleeing, leaving a trail miles wide, dragging the delighted hunger of the Leviathan behind him. Three straight days he'd run, insofar as time could be measured here, no thought in his mind but to put distance between himself and Dean, who could handle the uncomplicated brutality of the common Purgatory denizen but was outmatched by the Leviathan on their native ground.

_Cas, who art in Purgatory some-fucking-where, just come back, goddammit._

He’d lost them in an ice field, among great frozen spikes and miles-deep fissures and then doubled back on his own trail, fearful of using his Grace. The taste of his angelic self would be thick on their tongues, the smell of him a beacon and a taunt. He circled wide around another knot of them, found the forest again, was ambushed by a single Leviathan and forced to manifest his blade to take its head off. He ran for a week after that, long looping patterns through the trees until the Leviathans were too frustrated and impatient to think anymore and turned on one another to vent their rage.

He lay on the top of an escarpment for a while, hearing them eviscerate one another a mile away.

_Cas, I mean it. If you can answer. Just. Please._

***

Since then he has patrolled in wide, loose ellipses around Dean, trying to stay close enough to track him, but far enough away that his own trackers don’t catch wind. They know Dean is here. Probably. Maybe. Or not. Leviathan don’t speak much to the lower orders, and everyone else runs when they approach, so it’s possible that Dean’s fame among the lesser monsters hasn’t spread up the food chain.

***

“You’re him,” the striga spits, as Castiel pins it to a tree and prepares to crush its larynx. “The angel.”

“What do you know of me?” Castiel leans in, tightening his grip. If the Leviathan begin using the lesser souls to track him, things will get exponentially more difficult.

“Your boyfriend,” the striga wheezes. “’S all he asks. ‘Where’s the angel?’” It laughs, constrictedly. “Bad breakup?”

He tears its heart out and leaves it in a pile on the ground, half relieved and half dismayed. Also, helplessly, gratified.

***

_Now I lay me down to doze uncomfortably until some asshole wanders by for a ganking, I pray to Cas to keep his feathery ass in one piece. And, dude, I’m sorry. I forgot about the angel scribbles on my ribs, of course you can’t find me. But I’m gonna find you. Just. Hang on._

***

He knows, of course, that Dean will find him. It’s only a matter of time. Purgatory is vast and Castiel is careful not to leave any tracks, now, not to reveal himself to anything, but he cannot bring himself to break away entirely. Twice now he’s baited Leviathan away from Dean’s path. The second one wounded him, not badly, but enough to frighten him. If he is pulled down, if they set their teeth in him ... He turns his mind away.

***

_I could really use you, man. I’m – It’s getting easier. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Pretty sure it isn’t. It’s just so simple here, you know? Things haven’t been simple in – Christ, I don’t even know how long. Since Hell. No, since Dad died. There’s no choices here, and part of me really digs on that, I guess. So. That’s fucked up, right?_

***

Of course Dean finds Purgatory easy. Castiel knew he would. It is the purest distillation of Dean’s lifelong mission, and the absence of any others to get hurt in the pursuit of it could only be a relief. Dean was not happy in Heaven. Hell was, well. Hell. Designed to break him. But Purgatory is an endless excuse to be what Dean thinks he truly is. A weapon.

It is fucked up. And there is nothing that Castiel can do about it. He has never been able to get Dean to believe anything he didn’t want to.

***

_Cas. I’m still looking. Don’t – don’t give up on me, you hear?_

_This rugaru says she saw you up a tree. A tree. You still cuckoo for cocoa puffs?_

_Don’t be dead, man. I can’t – Don’t be dead._

***

He’s by a river, washing his face and hands. For a moment he thinks the voice is another prayer, echoing in his Grace, and then he registers the relief, the triumph.

“Cas!”

“Dean,” he says, rising. He is resigned. This will be difficult, Dean will not want to understand. He turns, his arguments and reasoning rising to his lips, and sees Dean coming toward him across the gravel, filthy and bloody and ragged. He finds he cannot speak. Dean is smiling, his handsome face drawn up into lines of joy.

“Cas,” he says and laughs and then he is there, right there and he is wrapping his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling tight. Pulling them together. Their bodies connect in a long line, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Dean radiates heat. His hands clutch at Castiel’s back, his breath goes out in a rush against Castiel’s neck.

His prayer is all but wordless. _Cas. Cas. Cas._


End file.
